


Take my hand, don't let go

by lemonlovely



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Catholicism, Christmas, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Language, Flayed!Neil, Good riddance, Homophobic Language, Kisses, M/M, Minor Violence, Mutual Pining, Post S3, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Religious Content, Slurs, hand holding, some darker thoughts about death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:23:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21856594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemonlovely/pseuds/lemonlovely
Summary: It's midnight on Christmas Eve, and Billy finds himself outside of the one (1) Catholic church Hawkins has to offer, as if he wouldn't be struck down dead on the spot if he went inside. Instead, he lingers in the cold, listening to the choir sing, watching the snow fall, and thinks of his mother.Then Steve Harrington shows up after getting off of a late shift at Family Video, and it all falls apart. Or maybe, things begin to get put back together again. One small piece at a time.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 15
Kudos: 120
Collections: Harringrove Holiday Exchange 2019





	Take my hand, don't let go

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OurLadyofPerpetualWallflowers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OurLadyofPerpetualWallflowers/gifts).

> Ah I really hope you like this, @OurLadyofPerpetualWallflowers! If you...completely hate it I can totally redo it, I swear! I was super excited to get you as my writing person ♥♥♥ Happy Harringrove Holiday Exchange!

It'd been about six months, nearly to the day, since Billy Hargrove came back to life – rose from the grave, whatever you wanted to call it. Six months since he’d been possessed by the goddamn devil himself, and if you’d asked him if he thought he’d be able to walk into a church without being struck down dead, he wasn’t so sure of that answer. He’d been dead once – he didn’t want to go there again, not so soon, anyway. 

At one point in his life, he’d thought that maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad – not with the way everything always just seemed to get worse, and worse, building up and building up, hit after hit, once his mom left…before that too. He’d never thought it would exactly get as bad as ‘demonic possession’ but he guessed there was apparently a time for everything.

But now that he’d _actually_ died? He didn’t want it. 

There was no light at the end of the tunnel, and nothing was better. It was just cold, and dark, and alone. 

And maybe that just made him a chicken shit little pussy, because maybe he deserved it, since he’d murdered all of those people like – like some kind of a serial killer, worse even than the Night Stalker out in Cali offing all those bitches in the O.C area. That was pocket change compared to Billy Hargrove – he’d offed half the goddamn town, hadn’t you heard? 

But not that anybody knew it, apparently – everybody thought all those people had died in the collapse of the mall, and the subsequent fire – they’d barely even been able to identify them based on dental records, the remains were so….destroyed. Mutilated. As if they’d _melted_, people said.

No one knew why. 

Well, nobody but Billy. Him, and Maxine’s ragtag little group of nerds, her band of Whizkids that were always up in everybody’s business, apparently. But not her – not the girl. El. Her name was El. She was gone – had been for a while. Billy’d never seen her again, not after…everything. Not after she brought him back from that place of shadows, and shown him what he needed to see – something he thought was lost forever. Something he was trying to hold onto, but it was difficult – more than just a little. 

It was damn near impossible, when everything’d felt so fucking hopeless for so long. And coming back from the dead hadn’t exactly changed that. The main difference? Was that his dad wasn’t there anymore.

He wasn’t there to throw Billy around anymore, either. Because Billy’d killed him too. 

Nobody’d been safe – nobody, not even his own father._ Especially_ not his own father. 

Maxine had told him he’d had it coming – but Billy, admittedly, couldn’t really remember it. 

The only things he _could_ remember was the backhanded slap, the way he’d fallen back, smacked his cheekbone against the sharp edge of the kitchen counter top – the red flower of pain that had blossomed icy hot over the entire right side of his face, like his eye socket had exploded. The sluggish drip of blood down his cheek, running into his ear. And then the seize of black in his veins, tying him up tight like ribbons of ink until he couldn’t move, he couldn’t breathe – only that _thing_ was pulling the strings. 

He remembered the way his dad’s startled grey eyes had bugged out. The way his thin mouth popped open in surprise beneath his perfectly trimmed mustache– the way the blood ran hot over Billy’s fist, clenched around the wooden, wide handle of the old kitchen knife. Trembling so badly, as he tried to stop it, to stop himself, burning tears spilling from the corners of his eyes even as his mouth was locked into a determined, flat grimace. But he couldn’t stop it, he couldn’t _move_.

After that – it was bits and pieces. Dragging his dad over the freshly mowed, lush green lawn, Neil’s pride and joy, still glistening from the yellow, rotatory sprinkler connected to the hose – then bumps of dirt and rock, the wet red slide over cracked cement on the walk. Stuffing him into the trunk of the Camaro, still alive. 

Driving him to the Steelworks, like all of the others. Flaying him, like Billy’d been flayed. Tipping the bottle of bleach down his throat, after that…_thing_ was done with him. He’d kept him alive just long enough for that, because he hadn’t hit anything major – just enough to make him _bleed_. 

No one harmed the host – no one. And if they tried? They’d be just like him.

Billy’s hand trembled at the thought as he raised the Marlboro to his mouth – his hands had had an almost consistent tremor, after everything. He could hardly hold them still, even if he tried, even if he focused. They were marked all over on the insides, across the lines of his palms, and the soft joints of his fingers, where he’d held back the jagged sharp pincers of the Demon-Made-Flesh, the Shadow. The monster he'd helped to build.

If he spread his palm out wide, as far out as he could manage, there was a fine lace-work of pale, orchid pink, nearly white scar tissue – still sore and sensitive to the touch, but healing more every day. His lungs ached at the burn of nicotine – he hadn’t been smoking as much these days, not after a collapsed lung, but he needed a smoke now, even more than he had in a while. He was actually out of the house, which was some kind of miracle. But he’d wanted to come. 

Billy was leaning up against the old, burnt-red clay brick of the one (1) Catholic church in Hawkins – it wasn’t exactly some grand cathedral with sweeping ceilings, not anything like the one they’d gone to out in San Diego that his mom had always taken them to – Saint Michael’s, where the bells rang every hour, on the hour. Surrounded by the gentle wave of palm trees, the smell of salt on the air. With her holding his hand as they walked the three blocks from the bus stop to Mass on Sundays, or when she would go for confession, which had been often. 

That was before he’d gotten old enough to tell her he wasn’t a _baby_ – he didn’t need her to hold his hand anymore. He wasn’t a little pussy, either – she hadn’t liked it when he’d said that, but he hadn’t understood _why_. Maybe he still didn’t, even now.

But if she’d held his hand in the hospital, or while he’d been laying there cold on the tile floor of Starcourt, or even when he hadn’t wanted to leave his room? He would have let her. He wouldn’t have minded. He wouldn’t have told her _not to_. But she never showed.

He couldn’t say he was surprised, even if he’d cried about it when everyone was gone, once it was lights out in the hospital – the hospital that wasn’t _really_ a hospital, with that Dr. Sam Owens guy. Owens hadn’t been so bad – a little weird, but okay. 

He’d said they’d contacted her, but that’d been the end of it. 

The Red shook finely between Billy’s scarred fingers as he took another long drag, cherry flaring bright before the smoke drained out of his nostrils. Slumped against the brick work, and cast off in the shadows of the overhang above the huge, wooden and iron slat doors that led into the Narthex and Nave of the church.

Pale blue eyes followed the slow drift of snow, fluffy flakes falling to earth to create a quiet, still layer over the dead Main street. It was nearly Midnight on Christmas Eve – the bells had rung not long ago, and it set his teeth on edge. Clanging to call in the sheep, but everyone was mostly already there – those who were gonna show up for the midnight mass, anyway.

Except Billy – he just stayed outside, lurking like some kind of a huge creep, he figured. Chain smoking and watching the snow, while he listened to the cathedral choir sing carols and hymns. Low, haunting, sweet voices that carried out into the night, past the church doors, and to Billy just beyond them. It stirred something melancholy right down low in Billy’s chest, a smoldering grief, a bank of embers that never went out. Made him breathe ash every day since the year he’d turned nine. It was worse now – the taste of rot on his tongue.

_…Ave Maria… _

Billy’s heart wrenched painfully at the somber notes of Ave Maria, and he let out a bitter sound around the burnt down filter of his cigarette, clenching his teeth around it and rubbing at his eyes roughly between pinched forefingers and thumb, until it hurt. The grief was sudden and all-encompassing. 

He missed his mother. 

He choked on a sob, one that made his chest ache like an old bruise. He hadn't thought of her at all, hadn't allowed himself to, before El had brought her back to the surface of his mind, like a bubble rising up slowly to the surface of a still lake, causing a million ripples in its wake. Now? Now. He tugged his flask from his denim pocket where it had been pressed against the meat of his thigh, icy cold in the depths of December. He wasn’t supposed to be drinking – wasn’t supposed to be doing much of anything, anymore – but he took a quick swig from the flask, searing his lips against the cold metal, let the freezing whiskey burn all the way down, warm him up despite the sub zero temperatures. He fucking hated bum-fuck Hawkins. He hated the cold. 

_…God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman…_

He could barely feel his fingers, despite the meager finger-less gloves, but it was more than that. The cold, and the weather – even if the snow was pretty, so soft, like a dream – made him ache. It made his rib cage creak as if with age, particularly where it connected where they’d re-built his breastbone. And the scars there – the scars would _burn_, in the cold, like vodka over an open wound.

It was the first time since he’d moved to this sorry-ass excuse for a state that he’d started to wear a winter jacket, more than just his leather one with a hoodie shoved on underneath. Now, it was more than just not being able to tolerate the cold – he abhorred it. It _hurt him._ Susan’d gotten him an old winter coat from the thrift store, a scarf too. He couldn’t even manage to hold a grudge against her anymore – couldn’t manage a lot of anything.

_…O Holy Night… _

Despite the cold, he was still out here. Couldn’t bring himself to go in, not for Midnight Mass, not for anything. Not anymore. He just wrapped his hand around the frigid medal of the Virgin that still hung from his neck – the one he’d gotten back from Maxine when he hadn’t been as dead as everybody thought, but that had originally belonged to his mother. He listened to the choir sing. Heart aching, whiskey sharp and vivid on his tongue, burnt down smoke hanging from his lips. 

He didn’t know how long he stood like that – as if in a trance, as long as it took to forget he couldn’t feel his face, he supposed. Straining for the words of the priest beyond the doors – as if that could offer him some kind of salvation. But it couldn’t.

_…O Come O Come Emmanuel… _

“Hargrove?” Came a tentative call. 

Billy jerked to life in the shadows, his cold addled brain snapping to attention as his eyes flared open, following the source of the horrifyingly familiar voice. The cigarette was nothing but ash now, and it scattered to the ground when he finally moved. 

Steve Harrington was standing there on the sidewalk – staring at him with those big stupid pretty doe eyes of his. He was in a navy blue and yellow ski jacket, with a big stripe across the breast, and a Vail ski cap shoved down over his ears – prints left behind him in the snow from his boots. His hands hung at his sides in honest to god mittens, and he had a little frown on his face, brow pinched with worry. That little furrow of concern might have pissed Billy off, once upon a time.

“Are you okay?” Harrington called. 

Billy moved away from the side of the church, ducking out from his hiding spot – he didn’t know how Harrington had even noticed him there, let alone why he called out to him. He was done here anyway – he was leaving. He started down the carved out stone steps leading up to the entryway, the haunting notes of_ O Come O Come Emmanuel _dogging his steps, echoing out into the lonely night - head lowered against the snow as it caught in his curls, breath fogging in front of his face with the cold. 

“’m fine.” Billy bit out, glancing away from Harrington’s honeyed, dark eyes, where he was just barely lit up by the warm glow of the nearby streetlamps. “Was just leaving.”

Harrington watched him, his gaze tracing over Billy’s face, as if picking out the way his nose was pink with cold, cheeks bright with it too, or the way the tears had frozen to his eyelashes like frost. The way he wiped at his nose, sniffing roughly, like the weather had anything to do with it. Like he could blame it on that. Then he looked back up to the church behind him, from the colorful, simple rose window up above, to the sign that read St. Mary’s Church. They were singing the song from within, sweet and sad, and the bells rang as the clock struck midnight, twelve times. 

Then Harrington blinked up at him almost owlishly, eyes huge in his face, his cheeks all pretty and pink from the cold, his lips too. He smiled at Billy, though it was an unsure thing. “Merry Christmas,” he said.

Billy’s mouth twitched, his brow sinking low over his eyes. He didn’t say it back.

“Were you…going to church?” Harrington asked after a moment, as if he wasn’t sure, like he couldn’t hear them from inside, and all the lights weren’t on. “I didn’t know they had church so late.”

“No.” Billy said. He let out a jagged, bitter laugh that made his chest fucking ache where that sunuvabitch had pierced him through. “I look like the church-goin’ type to you, Harrington?”

Harrington tipped his head like a confused puppy – god it was cute as shit, Billy fucking hated it. Hated him. Always had.

“Well – I don't know? My family’s never really gone to church, so…are you um, catholic?” Those dark eyes flicked back to the sign, as if he had to make sure he’d read it right.

“Nope.” Billy sighed, scuffing his boot in the snow, marking a groove in the couple inches of powder. He could feel ice hidden underneath it. “Used to be, I guess. Look, you here to give me the third degree or what? What’re you doin’ out here anyway, amigo? A little late for you, ain’t it?” 

Harrington arched one of those perfect, thick brows at him, raising his arms up and then flapping them back down, mittens hitting the edges of his thighs. Like a half body shrug. 

“I’m just getting off work – apparently it’s the big thing to rent movies on Christmas eve to watch tomorrow, but let me tell you, it was totally freakin’ dead past like…seven. I donno why we had to work so late, it’s not like it’s a Saturday night. These are our weekend hours.” 

Billy gave an involuntary shiver, like he’d just been reminded of the fucking arctic taking over Hawkins. Harrington totally noticed, then glanced around, as if he was looking for something – 

“Where’s your Cam – “ he started, then stopped. Went still, that pretty face wrinkling up in a wince, and seemed to bite his tongue. He slowly looked back to Billy, seeming a little sheepish, a flush high on those cheeks that had nothing to do with a chill. “Um…yeah, sorry. Nevermind I…I forgot. I mean, I didn’t forget! I just – “ he cleared his throat, shifting uneasily in his goofy, expensive looking snow boots, moving his weight from one to the other. “I wasn’t sure if you’d gotten it…fixed or not.”

“I walked.” Billy said.

He’d been a man of few words before all of the fucked up shit that had happened back in July, and he figured he was even less of one now. He didn’t elaborate, didn’t think he needed to. 

That was a sore spot to touch, and he didn’t even like to think about it. He didn’t need to tell Harrington that it was more than just losing the Camaro – battle wounded to shit and hid away in the carport outside the house, to the point where he couldn’t even look at it. They’d taken his license away on account of how he got the shakes. 

He couldn’t even drive Susan’s little Honda, not even if he’d wanted to. Which he didn’t. She’d even offered him Neil’s fucking monster of a truck, after…with the estate or whatever, but Billy’d rather have started drinking Chlorine again than ever have to get behind the wheel of the old tan Ford. The sound of the engine running still made a cold sweat break out on the back of his neck – he’d never be able to bring himself to drive the thing. He wasn’t his dad. He wouldn’t be.

“Well hey, I could give you a ride? I’m parked a little ways down, parking was pretty full when I got to work ‘cause of people last minute shopping, but….well now…” Harrington smiled a little and gestured to the miles and miles of empty parking spaces, besides the familiar, brick red Beamer parked nearly two blocks down, half covered in a fine layer of snow, ice coating the windows.

“What makes you think I need a ride?”

Harrington looked at him like he was totally crazy. “Well, it’s…it’s Christmas Eve, and it’s snowing. Aren’t you cold? C’mon, I can take you home. Old Cherry Lane is _far_. Can’t believe you walked.”

Billy twitched. He didn’t like being cold. The Shadow liked it cold. _He_ liked it cold. And maybe – the way the cold burned billy, seared his brutal scars and numbed his cheeks – maybe it was a comfort, that it hurt, in a way the sun no longer did. 

“Yeah….yeah alright.” Billy said – and in another lifetime, he would have fought it, never would have accepted. But tonight? With the tracks of tears still frozen on his cheeks where he tried to wipe them away, and the echo of the choir still in his ears, with Harrington looking at him in that open, earnest way of his…he’d say yes. He couldn’t say why, but he did. 

“Cool! I mean okay. Um. Yeah. I’ll get the heater blasting.” Harrington smiled at him in this winning sort of way, like he was pleased, somehow, that Billy’d agreed. Billy didn’t know why he did that, either. 

The snow crunched as they packed it beneath their boots, leaving two solitary sets of prints as they headed down Main. Billy didn’t say much, so Harrington seemed to fill in the silence that stretched between them a mile long. 

“So I see your sister at Family Video a lot,” he said. 

Billy grunted, to show he’d heard him. Didn’t say nothing like ‘ain’t my sister,’ because it wasn’t worth fighting the point anymore.

“She’s always renting movies, mostly from the Horror section…a lot of them I don’t really know, I’m trying to get better at learning all of them, but there’s so many. She says a lot of ‘em are for you?”

Billy bowed his head against the slowly falling snow, stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets to mirror Harrington, chewing on the inside of his cheek. Watching the way the snow shuffled under their steps, fluffing up ahead of each footfall. He kicked at it a little, spraying snow up ahead of him. Last winter had been the first time he’d seen snow in his entire life, and honestly, the novelty of it hadn’t quite worn off. He just wished it wasn’t so cold. He’d always wanted to see snow when he was a kid, like in the movies. He’d always liked movies. 

“Yeah…brings ‘em back a lot, thinks it gets me out of my room or whatever.” 

He could feel Harrington’s eyes on him – the way they slid over him in profile, studying him – he could almost visualize the little pout of his mouth, the worry that would pull back the corners. 

“Does it?” he asked quietly, over the hush of the snow and the crunch of their footsteps where they led away from St. Mary’s. 

Billy shoved his hands deeper into the pockets of his jacket, snowflakes catching in long lashes. “Not some fucking leper.”

“I didn’t mean that.”

“I’m out here, ain’t I?”

“I just…haven’t seen you around. Like at all. I was just…worried, I tried to call a few times, but – “

“Don’t need your pity party, Harrington. Just ‘cause – what? You feel bad about busting up my car?” Billy sneered, and something like glass jangled under his skin – the broken glass that was his constant companion, shed off his bones like a bird shed feathers. “Fuck you.”

“No! I mean, well yeah. I mean I do feel bad – I just didn’t know what was happening, I didn’t know what else to do…you were gonna – “

”I know what I was gonna do.” Billy said tightly. He couldn’t hear the choir anymore. “My Camaro was already fucked up anyway…it…” His throat worked slightly – he could see the BMW was close now, too close, really. “It was good, what you did. Just wished you’d finished the job, at the time.”

Harrington was quiet at that, for a long time, but when Billy glanced up at him as he pulled his keys out, he had a look of severe concentration. Like he was mulling over Billy’s words and he was about to break something in that pretty head of his. He got the Beamer unlocked, got the engine going, popped the locks, and pulled out the ice scraper. He motioned towards the passenger door with it. 

“It’s unlocked – you should get in, and warm up a little. The heater should kick in, in just a sec.” he said, voice uncomfortable. 

Billy slid into the passenger seat of the Beamer. He’d thought about it, before, being in this car that probably cost as much, if not more, than their entire house. The heater was on full blast, but the air was still cold, hadn’t warmed up from the burn of the engine yet, so Billy cranked the dial back down low, rubbing his hands together for a little warmth, but his fingers were numb by now. The interior was cast in blue, gloomy and shadowed with the snow caked over the car like ivory frosting.

He watched the impression of Harrington with a hawk-like intensity as he circled the car, brushing away snow and scraping away the layer of ice with a grating scraping sound, breaking it away in chunks until the windows were clear enough to see through. By the time he scrambled into the drivers side, the heat was finally starting to kick in, and he twisted the dial right back up. He tugged his mittens off, teeth chattering, and shoved his hands up against the vents. 

“Fuck it’s cold,” Harrington hissed between chattering teeth. 

Billy kept his hands in his lap, gaze drifting out the newly exposed passenger window. Not looking at the way Harrington’s long, slender fingers spread wide – how perfect they were, even pale and pink tipped with a chill. He sat there, letting the heat warm his fingers up, the leather creaking and stiff beneath them as the boys adjusted their weight. Letting warmth fill the interior of the car like a bubble, a cocoon against the weather. 

“What’d you mean?” Harrington asked after a moment of letting the heater do its work. “About finishing the job?” 

“What? You think I wanted to stay like that?”

“Well…well no. But I…I mean, we wouldn’t have done that. I would have tried to save you.”

“If it came down to sending that fucker back to hell where it belongs, and keeping me alive? I think we both know what that choice was gonna be. What it was.”

The radio was playing softly – it was on a Christmas station, which was totally typical. Burl Ives was singing Have a Holly Jolly Christmas.

“But Eleven brought you back.”

The back of Billy’s skull came to rest against the headrest, gazing out the window, not looking over at Harrington, even as he threw the car into reverse to back out of the space.

“Yeah. She did.” Billy said quietly. “I just…didn’t wanna be that things meat puppet, not a second more.”

“I’m glad you’re back. I wanted to tell you, y’know, before.” Harrington said. “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault. Did what you had to do – I would’ve done it too.” If it’d been his sister? He would’ve. Told himself he would’ve – even if it was Harrington, like it wasn’t a lie. “What’d you mean? ‘bout you not knowing what was happening? Didn’t those kids you fuckin’ – babysit or whatever, give you the update?”

“It’s…sort of a long story.” Harrington made a sour face as he turned the wheel and started going down Main at a snails pace – all of the stoplights were flashing yellow in the dim light of the snowy night, clumps of snow atop each one. “We were sort of captured by Russians? Under the mall. Didn’t Max tell you?”

“Russians?” Billy snorted. “No shit? Ah…yeah, guess I remember her mentioning it…thought she was _kidding_.”

“No joke. Russians, this whole secret base or whatever. Got the shit beat out of me.”

Billy laughed then, a brittle thing, which quickly turned to a wheeze – his lungs fucking hurt, and the dry cold made it worse. “Again? Jesus, can you not win a fight ever?” 

Harrington bit at his lip and glanced over at Billy with wry eyes, as if picking up on some hidden queue that Billy wasn’t aware of. “Uh hey actually I won that one! Eventually, it just took me a while.”

“Not like with me.”

Harrington seemed to sober at that.

“No. Not like with you.” 

Billy’s fingers itched for another cigarette, but he didn’t think Harrington would want him to smoke in his fancy ass BMW – he could just imagine he’d get bitched out about it. Not that he really cared, but….well, he’d already smoked enough. He never thought he’d see the day. 

“Didn’t ever tell you…” Billy started, then stopped, then tried again. “Didn’t mean to jack you up that bad, that night.” It wasn’t exactly an apology, but then again, it never was with Billy. “Had some other shit that was goin’ on, and thought you were perving around with my sister. Some little pedo-ring or some shit.” He ran his thumb over the edge of his hand, feeling the ridges of each scar over the side where they criss-crossed like the pattern of a star. He had them memorized by now, and the way they made his hands tremble finely. “But didn’t…wasn’t supposed to go that fucking far.”

Harrington blanched a bit in his seat, his mouth dropping open almost comically as he glanced at Billy all wide eyed, before he jerked his gaze back to the white-out road, keeping both hands gripped on the wheel when they fishtailed a bit.

“Wh- woah no, I mean you – jesus, of course I wouldn’t – I didn’t - “

Billy laughed again, that broken sound. “Cool your jets, Harrington. Max told me. She told me all the shit after…after everythin’. ‘bout last fall too. Know you ain’t no perv.” 

He pulled out a cigarette – couldn’t fight it no more, and he lit it up fast with the strike of his zippo. Harrington’s hands adjusted on the wheel, and Billy watched ‘em, the way they tightened up and went looser, but he didn’t say nothin’ about smoking in the Beamer. Billy cracked the window just a little, sucking at it until the cherry flared up, the paper burning back from the tip. He breathed smoke up at the crack in the window, like a fog, where it spilled out into the snowy night. Even the first breath helped him to relax.

The windshield wipers swished over the glass in front of them, sweeping snow off like powdered sugar with each pass. It was getting worse than before. 

“Would’ve been…a lot more useful, y’know. Months before.” Billy sighed, flicking his thumb against the foam of the filter, mouth digging back bitterly into the soft curve of his cheeks. “But she told me.” 

“It’s okay, it was…I mean you couldn’t have known. Who could’ve known that? I guess it did seem pretty….strange.” 

“Mm. Strange.” 

“We should’ve told you, I guess.”

:Wouldn’t’ve made a difference. Wouldn’t’ve believed you.” 

“But you do now.”

“Yeah. Yeah I do now.” 

They were quiet for a while as the static came in and out from the storm over the radio station, chipper Christmas songs playing away on a low volume, and Harrington hummed a bit along to a few of them, watching the road. They lapsed into a mostly comfortable silence for a few. 

Billy was watching the street signs – watching them change from Main to Mulberry to Cornwallis – getting closer and closer to Cherry Lane. Billy swallowed, the glow of the street lamps flashing by in slow motion. He didn’t want to go back – not tonight. 

“What are you doin’? For Christmas? Anything?” he asked, to break the silence – too much quiet and it started to be too much for him anymore. 

It was when the quiet built up that he could start to hear the old echoes of screams. Just didn’t much like it. At least in his room he could turn the stereo up loud, until he couldn’t hear himself think anymore, even with his headphones on when Susan started to bitch. 

“Oh….probably nothing, I guess. Mrs. Henderson – Dustin’s mom? She invited me over for Christmas dinner, so I might do that…”

“Nothing with your folks?”

“Nah. My family’s in Vail, skiing for the holidays. They won’t be back until New Years – my mom usually throws a big party for all their friends from the Country Club.” 

Billy thought about that for a moment. He’d heard things – mostly from Tommy H. and Carol running their goddamn mouths, like they were want to do, shit talking Harrington like it was gonna go out of _style_. Still licking old wounds from when he’d kicked their sorry asses to the curb. Billy had no love for Hoult’s coattail riding bullshit, and Whittaker just wanted to ride his dick behind her boy’s back, so he didn’t much blame him for dropping them. 

“Heard your dad’s a real prick.” Billy offered.

Harrington let out a startled laugh, his eyes crinkling around the corners, but the smile on his mouth didn’t reach them. He shrugged a little. “Yeah. A real grade-A asshole.” 

He tipped his head a little, still keeping his eyes on the road like the good little driver he was. Billy offered him the cigarette – he could sympathize with having a no good pops. 

Harrington glanced at it only briefly in surprise, then accepted it to give a faint drag over the cig, wrapping those pretty lips around the filter, and something stirred in Billy’s breast that didn’t have anything to do with a reconstructed breast bone. 

“Heard yours isn’t so great either.” Harrington murmured. Then he glanced at Billy as if he’d just remembered, and his face went a little paler, eyebrows inching up like he was surprised the words had just come out of his own mouth. “Oh – I mean, I, I’m sorry. About your dad, I didn’t mean…”

“Nah. ‘s okay.” Billy frowned as the Marlboro was passed back to him. He took a drag and let the smoke trail from his nostrils like a slowly simmering dragon, fire in his belly. “He wasn’t.”

Harrington didn’t say anything else about his old man, and Billy was good with that. Didn’t really wanna talk about it, not ever. He didn’t know how much Harrington knew about it – and he didn’t want him to know, if he didn’t already. 

“Your old man got a liquor cabinet?” Billy asked – his flask was sitting empty in his back pocket now, and was due for a refill. 

“Yeah,” Harrington shrugged, “He likes a lot of the expensive shit.”

“Any shit is good shit.”

“You mean you wanna..have some? Before you go home? Figured you might wanna be with Max, or…”

Billy didn’t want to go ‘home’ at all. That wasn’t his home. And Billy was the reason why there were now two of them, instead of three. Why Susan’d cried almost every day since Thanksgiving. 

“Little shitbird’s doin’ just fine with her ma. Last thing they need there is me.” 

“I don’t think that’s true – “

“Look, you wanna flip a bitch ‘n have a lil’ Christmas party or not, Harrington? Or you good all on your own?” Because Billy didn’t think he _was_.

Harrington was silent for a moment, watching where the beams of the headlights cut cleanly through the dark, close night and flurries of snow - then he gave a tentative, slow nod. “Yeah – I mean no. I mean I want to. But if we’re drinking, and I have to take you home…”

“Can worry about that later.”

***

With their boots melting off puddles by the front door, shedding mittens and hat, and Harrington had hung up their jackets on the coat rack in the foyer, Billy realized Harrington was wearing the most dumbass, forest green Christmas sweater with little christmas trees over the front that he'd ever seen in his life. He tried not to say shit about it though. Instead, he finally got a look at his apparent ‘mansion.’ 

Hoult was a goddamn liar. ‘cause he figured mansions might be bigger, actually, though it was still six times the size of Billy’s house – at least that much. Harrington said that they could go in the den, so they went in the den, which was towards the back of the house with sliding glass doors covered in blinds, and a giant fireplace against the wall.

There was a huge television set that was also six times the size of Billy’s own, and a VCR with stacks upon stacks of movies from Family Video in the half blank cases and writing up the sides for the titles. He guessed Harrington hadn’t been kidding on trying to brush up on all of the different movies – probably didn’t wanna get fired. Maybe Billy’d heard some shit from Max. 

Billy’d thought, a few times, about going in there to heckle Harrington s’more, like he used to do back when he’d still been in that _adorable_ sailor outfit back at Scoops Ahoy, just to hear him tell him _Ahoy_, to ask him to _set sail_ on that ocean of flavor, even if he looked like he’d rather be eating rocks than have to say any of that bullshit to Billy, as Billy drummed his fingers against the counter in delight, licking over his ice cream cone like it was something else entirely, until Harrington would blush for him. 

But things had changed since then – so much that it felt like it was a lifetime ago, or another life entirely. Not just six months. So Max had gone for him.

The house wasn’t cold – probably had a real nice furnace that didn’t break down every two weeks, until Susan had to send Billy after it with a goddamn wrench like he hadn't been on his _deathbed_ or whatever. But Harrington got a fire going anyway like some suave bitch, like a real grade A Boy Scout, and Billy told him as much. _Cub_ Scout, Harrington’d corrected him – Billy said it was the same thing. 

There was a massive Christmas tree stuffed into the corner of the den, covered in tons of ornaments, and a star on top, but no lights – no Christmas lights to speak of, not anywhere, which Billy thought was a little odd. A tree with no lights, but he wasn’t exactly judging.

Instead, he was thumbing over some of the black clamshell cases that were stacked up on the VCR while Harrington poked at some logs with an iron poker, making sparks spit up into the flu. 

“This the shit they got you watching?” Billy asked him. 

“Mhm,” Harrington stabbed at the logs again. “Some of it’s okay.”

“I’ll bet.” Billy replied, squinting at one of the titles. He rubbed at his eyes, and Harrington glanced up at him, all sunset orange in the glow of the fire in front of him.  
Billy waved one of the tapes at him. “This one’s got some real nice tits in it.” 

Harrington snorted. “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind. The one Max keeps renting over and over is Rosemary’s baby. She said it’s one of your favorites?”

Billy made a non-committal sound in the back of his throat, and slowly set down the case for Just One of the Guys. 

“Yeah, I guess. Nothing like getting fucked up the ass by the goddamn devil.” 

Harrington stared. “She gets fucked up the ass by the devil?”

“It’s a figure of speech. Well – I mean, he fucks her normal, you know. Knocks her up.” 

“Nah, I’ve never seen it. I don’t really like scary movies.”

“It’s more like – a classic thriller. Liked it since I was a kid.” He didn’t mention he had to skip parts now. Which was ridiculous. It wasn’t even a scary movie, it really wasn’t. Campy in parts, if anything. “Guess I know what it feels like to be fucked over by the devil now, too.”

“Well…I mean, it wasn’t really…the devil.” Harrington said slowly.

He’d set down the fire poker and had moved away to the couch while Billy kept looking at the tapes, picking through them. He plucked Gremlins out of the stack, the one that’d just come out early that year. 

“Close enough, whatever it was.”

“Thought you said you weren’t the church going type?” 

“I’m not, least, not anymore. Lapsed catholic, if you wanna call it that. Don't believe in something watching out for anybody - just on our own. My mom was, though. Real into all that righteous heaven on high shit, 'specially once my old man...well. Anyway, she always said even if you don’t believe in the devil, the devil believes in you. Guess he did, huh?” 

“But it’s just like….an alternate dimension, or something. I mean – the kids explained it, it made sense.” 

“I saw it.” Billy said quietly as he popped Gremlins out of the tape, and fed it into the VCR, turning on the giant-ass TV set. “I saw that place. If that ain’t hell? Dunno what is. Haven’t you ever seen the Exorcist? Only difference was, my head didn’t spin around.” 

But he’d thrown up a lot – maybe not projectile vomited, sure, but like - a lot. Black stuff, like melted tar, or molasses – rotten and spoiled, just like his blood. 

Harrington shook his head, he hadn’t seen it. But everybody knew the gist of it. He didn’t seem to know what to say – and Billy didn’t blame him.

He came to settle on the couch too, head slung back as he grabbed for the glass of gin Harrington had placed on the coffee table in the crystal glass and carafe. There were also two mugs of hot chocolate, side by side – one was Harrington’s, which looked like a five year old had made it out of clay, with the glaze reading #1 Dad. Billy wasn’t sure why. Billy’s had Garfield on it. 

The marshmallows he’d added were already melting, like cream against the rich cocoa, and Harrington said he’d added some cinnamon – that it was the ‘special ingredient.’ He’d also said something about being the master of making hot chocolate, but he’d see about that. 

Billy splashed some of his gin into the cocoa, and Harrington mirrored him. They sank back against the couch as Gremlins started up, though Harrington was suspiciously quiet. 

They sipped their spiked hot chocolate, the fire crackling off to the side, and the little shop where the dad found Gizmo showed up on the screen. 

“Is that necklace your mom’s?” Harrington asked about the clearly Catholic medal hanging from Billy's neck. 

“Yeah. It was.” 

“Did she, um…where is she?”

Billy’s shoulders sagged as he scowled up at the set, over the steam from his cocoa. He poured the rest of the gin in and didn’t answer him, ignoring the way it trembled in his hand – despite the way Harrington watched it. He wanted to say something snide – something about how Harrington’s parents had left him here, hadn’t they? They’d left him here alone, and it was Christmas, but they were off skiing in Vail, probably schmoozing and rubbing elbows and drinking hundred dollar wine at the bar of some high end resort. But he didn’t. Just kept his mouth shut. He was too tired for that shit anymore – reflecting the question back on Harrington just because he could. 

“It’s real pretty,” Harrington offered. “You always wear it, even during basketball, or – in the shower. Do you ever take it off?” 

“Guess not.” Billy said, then blinked sluggishly before glancing over at Harrington. _In the shower._ Like what? Like he’d been lookin’? He never looked at Billy in the shower – Billy’d always tried, always tried to get his eyes on him, but it had never worked. Not until he said something mean, and even then, Harrington’s eyes had always seemed to melt right off of him like the winter snow outside. Impermeable and unlasting. 

“What is it?” 

“It’s the Virgin Mary.” Billy said. 

“Like the name of the church you were at?” 

“Yeah, like that.” Billy said, rubbing at his eyebrow and setting the mug back down on the table.

“Oh hey could you put that on a coaster? Uh sorry, my mom gets real jumpy about water rings, so – “

Billy glanced at him over his shoulder with an arched brow then slowly moved the mug onto one of the cork-board lookin’ coasters. Harrington rewarded him with one of those heartbreaker smiles of his. One of them King Steve smiles that’d Billy’d probably have given his left rib for not so long ago. Might still. 

But if there was one person in this world who didn’t deserve Harrington? It was Billy. And that was if he hadn’t been as straight as a goddamn arrow. Then he flushed real pretty with a muttered ‘thanks,’ and fuck Billy’d put a million mugs on coasters for him. But he stamped that thought down real quick, stamped it down dead, the corner of his mouth twitching as he got his eyes back on the movie and slumped back against the sofa in his favorite long sleeved, black Mötley Crüe tee, knocking up a socked foot onto the edge of the coffee table.

He could almost _ feel_ Harrington judging him, but he didn’t say anythin’ this time, so Billy kept it up there, the other arm slung up over the back of the couch as the dad on the movie got a good look at the little Mogwi, brought him home. 

He was starting to finally warm up from being out in the cold, getting some of the feeling back in his fingers – as much as he got these days, and the gin was warming him up even more, from the center of his belly and radiating outwards. 

By the time they were halfway through the movie and the Gremlin’s were wreaking the kind of havoc only Gremlin’s could do – close to when they were gonna start watching Snow White, Harrington and Billy were about halfway through the crystal caraft, and three cups of hot chocolate, while Harrington kept laughing at the dumbest parts with the Gremlins, which was making _Billy _laugh – he couldn’t even hear the screams anymore. 

Harrington looked a little smashed when he gazed over at Billy with these half lidded, chocolate dark eyes, and the fire had mostly burned down – little more than a bank of cherry red embers, a few flames licking up here and there from the bed of ash. 

The wind was howling outside, whistling over the mouth of the chimney, and Harrington kept telling him he didn’t _like_ scary movies, but he still kept _laughing_ and saying ‘how the fuck is this rated PG?’ and smiling over at Billy and saying ‘Billy, like you. Your name is Billy.’

When it got to the part where the chick told that moron Billy – definitely NOT like Billy, himself – about her dad getting’ caught in the chimney and breaking his goddamn neck, Harrington stared at the fireplace for a long time. 

“Could that really happen?” 

“Human body ain’t exactly meant to fit down a chimney. No footholds. Of course he broke his neck.” Billy said, pouring more gin into his glass, and trying his best to still the tremble in his hands. He wasn’t gonna get all jumpy over some talk about necks breaking, slipping, dying. He wasn’t.

He wasn’t a baby. He wasn’t some little pussy. 

“Hey – you okay?” Harrington asked him, leaning forward and touching at his shoulder – like they were friends, like they were real familiar. Billy flinched under the touch, drew away, slamming back the cup of gin like the Keg-King he’d become. 

“’m fine.” Billy said. 

“You say that a lot,” Harrington murmured low. 

“’cause I always am.”

“It’d be okay – y’know – if you weren’t?” 

“Told you b’fore, don’t need your pity, Harrington.” 

“I _don’t_." Harrington said, then after a moment, "You um…can call me Steve. If you wanted. My friends call me _Steve_.”

“Thought your friends called ya _Stevie_. And who said we were friends? We ain’t friends.”

Harrington made a face like Billy’d shoved dog shit in his face. “No, only _Tommy_ called me that. Don’t call me that. But – we could be, if you wanted.”

Billy’s tongue peeked out of his mouth, a little half-heartedly. He watched as Harrington’s eyes dropped to his mouth, following the wiggle of his tongue, before they lifted back up to Billy’s own blue ones. He seemed to be thinking.

“You’re different.” Harrington – Steve - said in a very quiet voice. As in different than _before_.

Those warm chocolate eyes were soft, and a little sad, and he looked different, too. Different than the Steve Billy’d met on the court, and different than the Steve he’d seen at Tina’s party, different than the Steve he’d hounded at Scoops. Different. And maybe, the way Steve had said ‘different’ might have riled him up once. He was looking at Billy now. _ Really looking._

But the thing is, Billy couldn't get riled up about it, because he was. Different. In so many ways. He felt it. And he didn’t know what that meant – good, or bad, he didn’t know. He couldn’t go back to what he was, _before_ \- didn’t know if he even wanted to anymore. Didn’t think he could grab that firm blaze of anger that had always been his go-to, a constant within his chest – but it’d been punched out of him, along with the chunk of bone and piece of lung he’d lost with it. It hadn’t come back with everything else. 

The hot chocolate sloshed in the cup. Billy set it back down. 

“Are you still cold?” Steve asked, like the way Billy’s hands shook was ‘cause of that. 

Billy shook his head. He held out a hand to Harrington, palm facing the popcorn ceiling, extending his fingers as far as they’d go – which wasn’t as far as they used to, like his first and second knuckles wouldn’t open all the way. There was a faint tremor that ran from the tips of his fingers down to the tendons of his wrist, the pale blue lacework of veins there. Blue, not black. It was as if his hand was under some great strain, but it wasn't. Not anymore.

“Doc says it might go away. Donno when. Might not.”

Steve’s eyes got wider as he leaned forward from his comfy spot on the sofa, studying the cross-cross of scars over Billy’s shaky palm and the flesh of his fingers – star-shaped and jagged. He glanced up at Billy once, then back down to his hand, and reached out tentative fingers – slowly, as if to give Billy the time to draw away. But Billy held his hand still – as still as it got. 

Everything within him went tense at the touch. It was small. Almost nothing. The very tip of Steve’s index finger traced feather light – almost non-existent – over the lace-like ridged scars of Billy’s palm. Like some kind of palm-reader. For once, it didn’t hurt – it felt…strange. Like a faint tingle, sensitive, but not bad. Billy trembled under his touch – told himself he couldn’t help that. He watched Steve’s hand touching him – he had big hands, was one of the first things Billy’d noticed about him – guy could practically palm the whole basketball, wasn’t even a struggle. And he had these long, slender fingers, not thick and scarred like Billy’s, or callused. He had this silk soft skin, like he hadn’t done a days hard work in his life. 

“It almost looks like a snowflake…” Steve's voice was almost a whisper. Like a secret. "You know...you saved everybody. When you did this. You saved all of us."

Billy just sort of shrugged. Steve hadn't even said it was fuckin' ugly. And Billy didn’t know what to _say_ to all that. Not with him still touching Billy’s hand. So softly. Nobody’d ever touched him so soft. Like he might hurt him. Like he was _afraid_ to hurt him. That was usually the opposite of Billy’s problem. 

"Killed a lot of people too."

"That wasn't you though - it was that thing. You couldn't control that."

"Don't wanna talk about it."

“Yeah, yeah okay...so, is it Dr. Owens? You were seeing him?” 

Billy nodded mutely. 

“Weird dude.” Steve said.

“He’s alright.” Billy shrugged. He thought he could feel Steve’s touch all the way up to his _elbow_. It almost _tickled_. 

Steve’s whiskey dark eyes lifted back up to him, a little hazy with drink, but clear enough that he still looked alert. The Gremlins were having a party in the theater over Snow White. 

Steve hadn’t taken his hand away, though. So Billy held as still as possible, despite the tremble in his open hand, as if Steve were one of those cute bushy tailed, bright eyed creatures in Snow White, trusting him enough to touch him – like a woodland creature might sniff his hand to make sure that he was alright. That he wouldn’t hurt him. Like one of the deer in Bambi, despite it bein’ the wrong movie, back when Billy’d still been allowed to watch Disney movies before his dad decided they were too fruity for his son, and Billy was too ‘old.’

Billy felt a little giddy with it – the trust of it. Billy’d nearly killed Steve two falls ago. And he was so close, he could see the tiny starbursts of a fainter green just around the pupil within his irises. Had he been that close before? The weight of the couch shifted, and he realized Steve really had gotten closer – close enough that their thighs were suddenly pressed up together. Close enough he could smell the chocolate and gin on Harrington's breath - Billy'd always wanted to be this close to him. Never got the chance.

“I saw you sometimes. Looking. In the showers, at school.” 

Billy froze again but in an entirely different way – it was more of an ice in his veins, and the desire to snatch his hand back. To scream in Harrington’s face that he wasn’t some – some _faggot_. He wasn’t some _queer._ What the fuck did he think he was doing, touching him like that?! Every muscle in his body went tense to draw away, panic flaring sudden and sharp in his eyes as his throat was abruptly blocked by a golf ball of fear. It fluttered in his guts, too, all frightened butterflies. Steve’s hand had wrapped gently around his, supporting it from underneath. 

“I’m not – “ Billy spit, but his throat was too tight, working against the blockage – “s-some – f-“ 

“I was looking back.” Steve said suddenly, licking dry lips, like he was nervous. Unsure. 

Billy’s brain skipped like a warped record, stuttering, then shorted out. He blinked rapidly at Harrington in front of him – the glow of the embers casting them both in a dull red light, along with the flashes from the television – only the hall light was on otherwise, the Christmas tree dark. 

Billy swallowed, tried to speak, swallowed again. His mouth had gone paper dry. Steve was still _holding his hand_. He was so shocked he didn’t realize he’d stopped trembling – just for a moment. What was _happening?_

“W…what?” He asked dumbly. 

Steve shifted a little uneasily, gaze flitting away and then back, wetting his lips again. His hand twitched like he wasn’t sure if he should let Billy’s hand _go._

“It was….before, you know. Before you beat the shit out of me.” He said. “’cause I thought that….but….I mean I’ve never, you know – was I…wrong?” He started to draw his hand away. Billy clasped it again, fingers wrapped over the smooth edge of Steve’s palm, pressing the ugly ridges of his scars there. He didn’t want that hand to go away. 

'cause of _course_ he'd looked at Steve in the showers, after gym or after practice - how could he not? With that long, long torso, the strong V leading down from his hipbones, the enticing line of his treasure trail, and those thick thighs - his frame slender and lean, but with underlying muscle you wouldn't expect. The way the water ran over that creamy, beauty marked skin - and that ass, that perfect ass. Not to mention none of the girls had been lyin' - Harrington didn't have anything to be _shy_ about, not where it counted. Billy'd thought he'd been clever, with nothing more than furtive glances that Harrington couldn't have noticed. Couldn't have. Even if he'd wanted him to, so badly. Always wanted those eyes on him, needed him to pay attention. But now - now - 

“I was.” Billy said hoarsely, a confession - voice broken in a way that didn’t even sound like him. That sounded more like he had fresh out of the hospital, vocal chords destroyed from screaming. The words startled their way out of him – he hadn’t planned on saying it. He hadn’t. His brows knit together in a complicated way, mouth half parted, like he couldn’t remember how to keep his jaw closed. “I _was.”_

The firm angle of Steve’s Adams apple jumped as he swallowed, and he looked just as shocked as Billy. But then his brows slowly lowered, his face growing softer at the edges, and he bit a little at his lower lip – just the faintest hint of bright teeth. 

“I don’t_ look_ like that anymore.” Billy said, voice still all fucked up. He didn’t know what was happening – why these words kept coming out of him. It was like someone else was talking, which frightened him – he never wanted anything like that again. He only wanted to be himself. But he knew it wasn’t there – the Shadow. He couldn’t feel it. It really was just him. “There’s nothing to _see_ anymore.” 

Jesus, Billy’d been proud of his body – he’d worked so _hard_ on his body, working out for hours a day, keeping a strict diet and monitoring his protein and sugar intakes. He’d flaunted it every chance he got – and working as a lifeguard? It had been the perfect job for him. He could be shirtless all day, every day, and nobody would bat an eye. And if he had a shirt on? He’d be damned if it was buttoned past his navel. 

But now? Now….now….he was – fuck, he guessed the scars were pretty metal, they looked pretty badass, or they could...that's what Max told him, anyway, like it'd make him feel better….but the way they hurt…the way they burned, especially under hot or cold water when he clean up with a washcloth at the sink, because he couldn’t bring himself to get into the shower – not anymore – not after what he'd done to Heather in that teal tub. 

The scars, they just made him look mangled. Like he'd gone through a trash compactor, and come out looking more than a little worse for it. It was all he could see when he looked in the mirror. 

“I’m fuckin’…damaged_ merchandise,_ Harrington.”

“_Steve,_” Steve gently corrected. “And no, you’re not.” 

And then – Steve was – kissing him. He was _kissing_ him. Kissing _Billy_. It couldn’t be real, it couldn’t be, this couldn’t be happening – he had to be more wasted than he thought, but - but it _was_ . It was real. 

It was soft and tentative, chaste and brief, the most gentle touch of his lips as he leaned toward Billy to cross the last bit of distance between them, the couch cushion dipping beneath their combined weight. As unlasting and delicate as the sweep of a dove’s wing in flight. 

Then Steve was pulling back, just enough that he could open his eyes again – because he’d closed them, whereas Billy’d kept his wide open. Steve got this tiny little line between his brows, like he was concerned it might have been the wrong thing to _do_, or Billy might be _upset_. Billy wanted to smooth it away, show him neither of those were true. He closed the gap between them again, letting his own eyes drop closed this time – and pressed their lips back together with a little sigh of relief through his nose. Desperate for the feel of that mouth on his.

He parted his lips in an aching sort of way – Steve seemed to take the invitation, licking across Billy’s lower lip, and then into his mouth, and holy fucking shit he had Steve Harrington’s tongue in his mouth, that was _happening_. He’d…he’d liked Steve since…since forever. Since he first saw him, across the room at Tina’s. Since he’d seen him in the parking lot, the first day of school. He tasted like hot chocolate and gin, and he smelled sweet like with some kind of hair product, but also like some kind of good, fragrant cologne. 

He’d never thought…not with Steve – it didn’t seem possible that this could be happening, and he smelled so good, and his tongue was hot in Billy’s mouth where it tangled with his own, and they were both breathing hard through their noses. Steve was still holding his hand, lifting the other to briefly touch at Billy’s cheek, tugging gently at a golden curl there, thumb stroking over his stubbled cheek, rough like sandpaper. 

He didn’t remember the last time he’d kissed anybody, especially not anybody he’d _wanted_to kiss. Not since Cali – and even then, not a lot. Just these Hawkins bitches, and that hadn’t been what he wanted, what he needed. The last one he’d kissed had been Heather Holloway in the breakroom, and – he could still hear her _scream_ \- 

It was suddenly too much. Too much contact, too much touching, too much heat, - but not enough _air_, all at once. Steve’s tongue was suddenly _choking_ him, and Billy’s breath had come too fast, and he was pulling back, breathing hard, too hard, hand trembling in Steve’s. He lifted the other one to hide his face where he grimaced, immediately so - _frustrated_ with himself. 

Steve flinched back, dropping his hand from Billy’s cheek, but not quite releasing the gentle hold on his hand. Billy could feel his eyes on him, even if he couldn’t see them behind the shelter of his hand. 

“I – I’m sorry,” Steve started, stopped. “Was it…I’m sorry.”

Billy shook his head, shook it again. 

“No, it – I’m okay, I’m alright I – I’m sorry. It was just…a lot. For a second.” He tried to breathe through his nose, try to slow his heart down. 

“Thought Billy Hargrove was never sorry?” Steve said kindly. “Don’t be sorry.” 

Billy choked a slight laugh past the cover of his hand, then pressed it over his mouth, before rubbing it over his jaw. Couldn’t quite meet Steve’s eyes – looked anywhere but. He swallowed hard.

It still didn’t seem real – Steve had kissed him – he’d kissed Steve – but maybe it’d been too much, too fast. This had been his first night out of his room – fuck, out of the _house_ in months. Really since he’d gotten out of the hospital. Back when he hadn’t wanted to see Steve – so Steve wouldn’t see what he’d become. How he was so much _less._ But Steve’d still kissed him. 

“It’s really okay – I shouldn’t have…rushed it, it was my fault, okay?” Steve murmured, a mournful little frown on his face. “Can I just….can I still hold your hand? is that alright?” 

Billy glanced at him, still feeling pretty overwhelmed. But he nodded. He felt like he couldn't breathe, Heather's screams in the back of his head - the others too. 

So Steve just held Billy’s hand within his own – even though it trembled. Like he didn’t even notice. The movie had run through the credits, and rewound, only on a blue screen now. The fire'd burned down low. They settled back into the sofa together and Steve let Billy lean against him – in a way he didn’t know he’d needed to lean against anyone. He closed his eyes, for a long time, resting his forehead against the side of Steve’s temple, chin upon his shoulder, one leg drawn up onto the couch. Lids half lowered as he tried to focus on not falling through the floor, sinking into it like quicksand. Trying to catch his breath. Steve held their hands between them, and it helped. He was gently running his other fingers over the backs of Billy’s knuckles – still scarred for entirely different reasons than the monster. That was all from Billy, when he broke things. 

They sat like that for a time, with Steve’s chin propped atop Billy’s lions mane of curls. He wasn’t sure how long. Until his heart finally evened out, and he couldn’t hear Heather’s pleading to let her live. Until he could breathe without his lungs feeling like he couldn’t drag in a full breath. Until his head wasn’t pounding behind each eye, and he could see clearer again. Until he felt like he wasn't going to get sucked into a sink hole in the ground. 

"Are you feeling okay?" Steve asked him, voice quiet.

"Yeah...yeah, am now. What...now? What's...after this?"

“Well...maybe you could come by the store..? When Max comes by to rent something…Robin and I’ve been missing you around.” 

Billy stirred slightly – realized he’d almost been about to fall asleep against Steve. At some point, Steve’s other arm had looped around his shoulders where Billy slumped against him, a big, wide hand slowly smoothing over his bicep. Up and down, a repetitive, soothing motion. Steve was warm, and comfortable, and it felt…nice. Safe. Safe in a way Billy hadn’t felt in…he didn’t know. Maybe years. He knew it was just temporary, but he soaked it in like a sun-starved plant placed in a sunny window. Basking. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I - I’d like that.” Billy said after a moment, his voice still rough, unused. 

Steve pressed a feather light kiss to the side of his head. Billy closed his eyes. 

“Merry Christmas, Billy.” 

“Merry Christmas - Steve.”

“That mean we’re friends?” Steve murmured against his hair, breath warm. 

He was still holding Billy's hand, fingers interlaced. Like something fragile, a glass egg held in the palm of a hand.

Billy laughed a little, a drowsy, soft sound. “Mm. We'll see.” 

*** 

Steve didn’t really remember the last time that he hadn’t woken up alone on Christmas. But he woke up with Billy, a little sore from falling asleep on the couch, the TV still on a blue screen. The bank of the fireplace cold, and dark. 

Steve wasn’t sure where things had left off from the night before, exactly – but he knew that he was happy with where they’d left off. They were both still a little hung over, but not too bad, and they’d both tossed back a few Tylenol and glasses of water. 

Steve made Christmas pancakes while Billy called Max to let her know he’d be home soon. Where Steve’d been mixing the bowl of batter, Billy’d come up behind him, a hand on his hip, and placed a kiss against the side of Steve’s neck. Steve was letting Billy set the pace. It was new, and he didn’t know what it meant exactly - not yet. But there wasn’t a rush. They could figure it out.

They’d eaten Steve’s_ awesome_ pancakes (he was a really good cook) and watched cartoons in the den, A Charlie Brown Christmas, before Billy was getting bundled up all over again, and he was ferrying Billy across slippery streets all the way across town back to 4819 Old Cherry Lane. 

He’d watched Billy’s hunched over back make his way up the snow covered walk to double check he got in alright, waving through the window as Billy scowled at him over his shoulder, squinting at the bright snow. He'd nodded at Steve, before he disappeared inside. 

***

Steve didn’t have to be at the shop until noon – and though the day was busy enough, he wasn’t expecting Billy to make good on his promise as soon as he did. 

So when he walked in with Max, head ducked under the hood of his jacket, hands buried in his pockets and glancing around at the people gathered in the shop – Steve’s heart gave a sudden, quick ache. He hadn’t seen Billy out in daylight in…well…since before the 4th of July, when he was still life guarding and blowing his whistle at anything that moved. 

“Heya blondie,” Robs smiled at him from behind the cash desk, bracing her hands against the counter and tipping her head. “Like the jacket. Haven’t seen you around.” 

Billy ducked his head slightly and drew the hood of his jacket down, heading toward the register – his gaze flitting over to Steve, and then back to Robs. 

“Hey.”

“Good to have you back.” Robin said, and Billy nodded at her, seeming a little flustered.

Maxine was flanking his side like his little guard dog, staring at anybody that seemed to get too close like a warning she’d bite. “Hey Robin, hey Steve.”

“Hey Max. Hey…Billy.” Steve smiled at him, locking eyes with Billy and tugging at the bottom of his stupid looking vest. Maybe Billy wouldn’t notice. It was still so different to call him by his first name. He caught Billy's eye, and held it, a thrill running through him. “How are you guys?”

Robin’s gaze dragged slowly between the two of them, and her slender, perfectly plucked brow slowly raised. Like she was making some kind of a connection. Like he and Billy were making eyes at each other, and she’d seen through it.

"Doin' peachy, Harrington." Billy said, and he almost sounded like his old self. He was smiling a little when he said it. "Yourself?"

"Oh, me too. Like. Really peachy." Steve nodded. Billy laughed. Steve beamed.

"Okay okay we're all peachy c'mon let's pick one out!" Max said, carefully reaching out to touch Billy's arm - not his hand. "it's so cool you're here, we can pick out anything you want, but also maybe can we get -

"Yeah hold your damn horses, I'm goin', Jesus...you seriously say Karate Kid again, Maxine, I swear..."

"Uh Ralph Macchio is totally cute, Billy - I mean remember, you said - "

"Shut it, Maxine - " Billy cut her off in a begging tone.

“Oh hey! Hey Billy – “ Steve started as he and Max were heading towards the ‘Horror’ section. Even though Robin was already poking him in the side and giving him a _look_ to spill the beans. Whispering 'Dingus! You care to explain?' Steve waved her off for now.

He reached under the front desk to pull out a suspiciously-video sized package, wrapped in Reindeer Christmas paper and a silver bow. 

Billy headed back towards them, frowning down at the package. “What ‘s it?”

“It’s for you.” Steve said, extending the Christmas gift. “Sorry it’s a little late.”

Billy took the package like it might _bite_ him, glancing up at Steve with a faint flicker to the corner of his mouth, almost like a smile. Then he tore into the paper, right there at the register, completely destroying the wrapping until he’d unearthed the gift. 

“Rosemary’s baby.” Billy said, staring down at it, then up at Steve.

“Yeah – now you guys can keep it, and rent some new stuff, too.” 

“Holy shit Steve, that’s Billy’s favorite!” Max said, then narrowed her eyes at him. “How’d you know?”

Steve laughed and rolled his eyes at her. “Jeez Max, you _told_ me, and you only rent it like, every other day.” He turned his gaze back to Billy. “Now it’s all yours.”

Billy smirked at him. “You realize this means you gotta watch it now, right?” 

“Uhhhh I didn’t say _that_ \- “ Steve dodged it elusively. 

“Sure y’did. Got it for me, didn’t ya? Gotta come over and watch it.”

"And Karate Kid." Max added as she started back towards the shelves.

Steve perked up at that - like, go to Billy’s? To his house? Steve’d never been to his house. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.” 

“Yeah – yeah okay. If you swear it’s not scary.” 

Bill smiled at him, saying “Not scary at all.”

But maybe Steve could still hold his hand. 

**Author's Note:**

> Songs:  
Ave Maria: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2H5rusicEnc  
God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FlfHyb397VY  
O holy Night: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p6d03oolCr4  
O Come, O Come Emmanuel: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7xtpJ4Q_Q-4


End file.
